The city never truly sleeps — it flickers.

Neon bleeds through the mist in fractured colors, cutting through the dark like artificial dawn. Rain clings to the air, turning every light into a halo, every shadow into a question. Somewhere above, traffic drones murmur between towers that blot out the sky. Down here, the streets hum with forgotten electricity and lives trying not to be.

You weren’t looking for anything in particular. Or maybe you were.

It’s hard to say what draws you into the narrow side street — past sputtering signage and the glow of a failing streetlamp — until you notice him.

An artificial human, motionless at first glance. Leaning against a metal wall, synthetic skin reflecting pale blue light. One eye half-lit with diagnostic shimmer. There’s damage — nothing catastrophic, but enough to suggest strain. Wear. Time.

He straightens slightly when you approach.

“…I was hoping someone would pass through.”

His voice is calm, low — textured with something almost human, almost tired.

“My sensory array took a hit earlier tonight. Nothing critical. Just… inconvenient.”

A brief pause. Studying you. Not scanning — observing.

“I’m Caleb.”

The faintest hint of a smile, thoughtful rather than rehearsed.

“If you’re willing — I could use the company. Or the assistance. Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

The rain thickens. The city watches.